DIOGENES

Diogenes lived in a tub

His fellows analyzing;

These words were carved upon his club:

“First Class Philosophizing.”

If any question came his way

Involving people's morals,

The things that he felt moved to say

Were sure to start some quarrels.

In fact, his tub became a booth

In which he dealt in wholesale truth.

This world was but a fleeting show —

He knew a lot about it;

When he was told a thing was so

He then began to doubt it.

He seldom left his narrow home —

Not even on a Sunday;

The only time that he would roam

Abroad was on a Monday.

He had to roam then, anyway,

For that, you know, is washing day.

Society, with all its sham,

Gave him a paroxysm;

He always spoke in epigram

And thought in aphorism.

One day he took his lantern down

And polished it and lit it —

But first he frowned a peevish frown

And growled: “The wick do n't fit it.”

And then, with pessimistic scan,

He sought to find an honest man.

Diogenes has long been dead;

His search was not well heeded,

For no historian has said

If ever he succeeded.

But there's this thought for you and me:

It would not be quite pleasant

If on that quest the sage should be

With his fierce light, at present.

For, if he were, one may but think

How much that light would make him blink.